


A Spot of Tea Never Hurt Anybody

by hypothetical_chainsaw



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Gen, Pre-Canon, a little family time for the Spellmans, spellman siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypothetical_chainsaw/pseuds/hypothetical_chainsaw
Summary: Edward hadn't bothered consulting Zelda before administering their nephew's sentence. If he had he might have thought twice. Chirpy sister back and a miscreant Brit? It was only a matter of time before things went south.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	A Spot of Tea Never Hurt Anybody

**Author's Note:**

> Birthdays all round today and the lovely @ZeldaByrdeBishop's got me writing Spellman family life. That's right, I caved and wrote Edward...💛

Zelda was the last at the breakfast table that morning, as she had been every morning since she’d returned home after completing her midwife training the century before. Today however was different. Today her seat was taken.

The set had moved with the family when first their parents had settled in Greendale and, from the time she’d been old enough, Zelda had sat in front of the window, sunlight on her back. She had almost switched seats once, shortly after her dark baptism had lightened her curls from the startling red they had been in her childhood. Hilda, ever the cheery little thing in the mornings, had remarked that, with the sun behind her, her hair now glowed like a halo. It had only been Edward’s assertion that their younger sister had been referring to an image of Lucifer from before his fall that had kept her in her seat.

Vinegar Tom padding softly behind her, she stopped abruptly at seeing the chair now occupied, sending her familiar crashing into her shins at the sudden halt. He grumbled something of a growl but a swish of her hand quietened him. The boy had taken her chair. The boy - their nephew - tucked into the stack of pancakes before him, seemingly nonplussed by Zelda’s arrival.

“Syrup at breakfast?” He queried around the forkful in his mouth, hand already reaching for the small jug of maple syrup at the table’s centre.

His delivery was a Satan awful reminder of the twee accent Hilda had somehow adopted during her time in Europe and, even without the added insult of crumbs dropping to her fastidiously kept place setting, it was grating to say the least.

“You take as much as you like, my love. Good to build your strength up after your time in the Witch’s Cell.” There it was; truly headache inducing.

She’d never understood the draw of an English accent, even Faustus’ had a tendency to set her on edge on occasion, but for 50% of her household to now have it seemed a punishment far worse than Ambrose’s own.

Syrup sloshing over the side of the boy’s plate in a clear lack of self control, Zelda cleared her throat expectantly.

She was met only by her sister’s exuberant grin as she gestured to the stove, “Your eggs are ready and waiting. Yolks should still be soft too, just how you like them.”

As quickly as she’d gained it, Zelda lost Hilda’s attention, as the witch pulled a pancake from her own stack onto Ambrose’s plate offering a soft pat on his arm.

Before she could object to the show before her, Edward’s voice cut across the table, firm as always, though his focus remained resolutely on the paperwork before him, “Sit there Zelda,” He nodded in the direction of the remaining chair, “It makes little difference where you sit when the boy’s in need of a little hospitality.”

“It was two days in the Witch’s Cell, we’ve all done longer.”

“We haven’t all-” Hilda’s chirpy morning disposition really was more than she should be expected to cope with.

“Harrowing.” Zelda countered.

Ambrose grinned, interjecting nearly as quickly as she had, “You have your own chair?”

She wouldn’t be putting up with a hundred years of him; she refused.

“She’ll be fine sitting elsewhere.” Edward’s tone was the same he used when reprimanding the children on the days the Infernal Sunday School class were allowed to join the main Black Mass.

She bristled at the admonishment but sat in the remaining chair anyway, grimacing as it tilted on uneven legs. She’d hoped for breakfast, not a fairground ride. Eggs forgotten on the stove, she skewered a pancake from the serving tray, slapping it petulantly on the plate before her.

“Zelda…” Hilda did her best at a scolding tone but after her telling off from Edward it seemed laughable, “No sweets before midday. Your blood pressure can’t take it.”

“My blood pressure can’t take you this morning.” Zelda contended bitterly, pouring out her own syrup with more care than her nephew had.

Ambrose’s knife scrapped across his plate, teeth-grittingly loud, his attention only half on his food, the other half wrapped in his aunt’s quarrel. He ducked his head in a half hearted apology at Zelda’s look of derision, but continued eating with gusto.

Silence fell over the table again, but for the pen nib scratching against Edward’s papers and Ambrose’s enthused chewing. Sensing her sister’s gaze still on her, Zelda speared a particularly large piece of her pancake, narrowing her eyes in a silent challenge as she placed it delicately in her mouth. Vinegar Tom was offered his own pancake at her ankles as the syrup from hers coated her tongue.

Her petulance was ignored, Hilda instead setting down an ornate china teacup before the older witch. That was not her cup. If he’d taken her chair _and_ her cup-

“Hilda, it may have escaped your notice in the two centuries you’ve been making it for me, but I don’t take milk in my coffee.” She berated as the blonde reached for the cracking milk jug.

“I thought you might like a spot of tea instead, give you that little bit of get up and go to meet the day.”

Whatever nonsense the English had clouded her sister’s mind with would need to be remedied with the utmost urgency. Nobody would _like_ a spot of tea over a morning coffee.

“Would it surprise you to know you thought wrong? I’ll have my usual coffee.”

“She forgot it when she was in town.” Their nephew was almost gleeful at the admission.

“She what?”

“Bought two pounds of Darjeeling though.” Edward chuckled, lifting his own teacup to his lips.

“I promise,” Pouring a fresh cup from the pot, HIlda slid it across the table, clasping her hands together as though a show of honesty would somehow rectify her error, “You’ll love it just as much, maybe more.”

Zelda had to hand it to her; the teapot was sturdy enough that it was Hilda’s head that caved first when the two collided moments later. The coffee pot would never have withstood that.

* * *

For mid-May, the air still held a certain bite to it as it brushed past Zelda’s tresses. She had grown used to it over the years; favoured it over the blistering heat of sunnier climes. No doubt Edward was grateful for it too, though his shirt was still wet through from the exertion of digging through the damp soil. He’d need another one before leaving for the Academy. Hilda better have had the foresight to launder a fresh load or she’d be making a return journey to the Cain Pit before the day was out.

Wiping his brow with his forearm, Edward turned, squinting across the lawn to his sister lazing on the porch steps, familiar on her lap, “Perhaps a hand Zelda?”

“You want her back, you bury her.” She lit a cigarette, pincering it in the holder before bringing it to her lips.

She could always rely on Edward for the heavy lifting. Her brow furrowed. Satan knew what she’d do if he decided to return to the High Priest’s quarters now that the mortuary was filling up again. She’d think of something, maybe spin something about not leaving his sisters alone with a known criminal, family or otherwise.

“Never been a fan of tea.” She hadn’t heard her nephew join her. Surely his light footedness was a mark in her favour when convincing Edward to stay.

“You seemed quite the fan in there.” Zelda gestured to the kitchen window behind them.

He’d been quite the fan of everything. _Glutton._

Hilda’s body gave a resounding thud as it hit the bottom of the freshly dug grave. That’d bruise; post-mortem damage never healed as soundly in the Pit.

“Auntie Hilda spent the entire journey from my trial talking about nothing but your temper.” Had she now? “Call it morbid curiosity.”

Zelda smirked. It seemed she’d judged him too harshly before.

“Does house arrest extend to the porch?”

“And even the garden. I am a lucky wizard.” He parodied Edward’s tone remarkably well. No doubt her brother had made it part of his grand sentencing speech. He was one to soliloquize needlessly.

“Well then, get to it.” She thrust a shovel up at him, “Edward needs a hand.”

Though his eyes rolled at the very suggestion, he took the proffered shovel, sauntering off towards his uncle, Vinegar Tom following in his wake. Perhaps a century of forced coexistence wouldn’t be too bad after all if Tom had taken a liking.

**Author's Note:**

> The start of a beautiful friendship!
> 
> Let me know what you think and thanks for reading!


End file.
